Crabbe and Goyle are Dead
by Redcoast
Summary: The books from Crabbe and Goyle’s point of view. Homage to “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead,” except without the existentialism. Much.
1. Chapter 1

It all began when Vincent Crabbe was eight. His mother, Draco Malfoy's mother, and Gregory Goyle's mother thought a playdate would be a nice idea, despite the women's mutual, yet muted, loathing of each other, and more than one child's psychotic tendencies. Crabbe was always a big kid, his arms and legs like little tree trunks, his torso and his neck thick, incongruously softened by the childish pudding-bowl haircut his fond mother had inflicted on him, but Gregory Goyle dwarfed him. Though not taller than Crabbe, he was somehow huger with his lumpy, reaching arms, thick, trollish brow, impressive thighs, tiny eyes, and huge feet. Crabbe took one look at his contemporary, and instantly decided to be agreeable. 

"My name is Crabbe," he said, sociably. He had spent so much of his boyhood with Malfoy, he had nearly forgotten his given name. "What's yours?"

"Greggers," Goyle grunted.

Crabbe's mother had told him that the best way to make friends is to ask about the other person's hobbies, or interests. "What do you like to do, Greggers?" Crabbe said.

"Hit people."

"Your friends or people you don't like?"

"People I don't like."

"Let's be friends," Crabbe decided. And so they were, and so ended Crabbe's attempts at friend-making, for Draco and Goyle were more than enough for him. Draco wasn't quite their friend, however; their commander might be a more accurate description.

"I hate Mudbloods," Malfoy said cheerfully one summer day. "Let's play Dark Lords and Muggles. I'm the Dark Lord, Goyle is a Muggle, and Crabbe is a prideless pureblood who has polluted his race by formicating with a near aminal."

"Uh–" Goyle began.

"Can't I be a Dark Lord?" Crabbe asked.

"No! I'm the Dark Lord! Now, Crabbe, you get Goyle pregnant."

A vaguely horrified expression appeared on Goyle's face like a man's drowned corpse bobbing to the surface.

"Only girls get pregnant," Crabbe said. Goyle stifled a gasp, and Malfoy glared. He drew himself up and stared Crabbe in the eye.

Crabbe gulped. "_Mr._ Malfoy," he added.

"He _is_ a girl," Malfoy snapped. "In this game, you're a girl," he repeated to Goyle. "And you're pregnant with a Mudblood. Hold your tummy like you're pregnant."

Goyle hesitantly rubbed his belly with his baseball glove-like hands.

"Moan, too! Moan! You're having the baby!"

Goyle looked helplessly at Crabbe, who gave him an encouraging nod. Goyle slowly turned his head between Malfoy and Crabbe, then returned to rubbing his stomach, and let out a few faint, bovine noises.

"Mooo. Mooo. Moo."

"Now I'm the Dark Lord!" Draco jumped to his feet, pointing a twig at Goyle as if it were a wand. "You, stupid Muggle! Who is the prideless pureblood who you had the sex with?"

Goyle stared, his mouth open. "Uh–"

"Am I supposed to fight you, Mr. Malfoy?" Crabbe asked.

"Oh, you are the prideless formicator!" Draco cried, wheeling around to point his twig at Crabbe. "Behold, as I eliminate the unworthy from our race!" He pointed his twig back at Goyle. "_Abada Kedabra!_ You're dead! Now fall over, that was the killing curse. Oh, and your uterus should be expelling the foetal Mudblood, so moan."

After Draco went home, Goyle sat under his special tree, and began arranging the leaves into piles of different sizes. Recognizing his behavior as a mark of a disturbed mind, Crabbe walked to the tree and squatted down with him.

"What's wrong, Greggers?"

Goyle didn't answer for a moment, moving the leaves around. Finally, he said, "Are Mudbloods that bad?"

Crabbe felt a surge of sympathy. "Aw, no, I don't think so. Your mom is okay and she's Muggle-born. We just won't remind Mr. Malfoy about that, all right?"

Goyle piked up a fallen branch, about an inch in diameter, and still with green leaves attached, and began snapping it into little, tiny bits. "Mr. Malfoy hates me," he said slowly, and his chin began to tremble.

"Mr. Malfoy doesn't hate you! Being a half-blood is almost as good as being a pureblood! Hey, even Mr. Snape is a half-blood, right?"

Goyle's pout was implacable.

"Even You-Know-Who's a half-blood."

Goyle lip trembled.

Crabbe sighed. "Harry Potter's a half-blood."

Goyle looked up. "Harry Potter?"

"Yeah!"

Goyle looked at the stick in his hand, blinking. A quivering smile fought with the frown on his face, and gradually won out. "Okay," he said. Crabbe considered that a victory.

Their first year found the threesome crowded in a Hogwarts Express cabin, Draco tripping over their larger legs as he lunged for the candy cart.

"You lot!" he commanded–everything Draco said sounded like a command. "Have you heard that Harry Potter's on this train? Imagine! Harry Potter!" he said, scooping up a handful of pasties and shortchanging the woman pushing the trolley by a few knuts.

"Uhm–Harry Potter?" Crabbe said, dropping a few of his own coins into the trolley-pusher's hands before she could protest.

"Yes, you dolt, the Boy Who Lived. Scars and all that, defeater of the Dark Lord. Even you two must not be daft enough to not know who he is."

"Uh–" Goyle began. Crabbe kicked him and nodded quickly.

"Well, they say defeater of the Dark Lord like he's something special, full of good magic or something, but that just shows their prejudice. It's obvious that if you defeat a Dark Lord you're probably full of dark magic yourself. Imagine! Killing Curses just bounce right off his forehead. He must be nearly all-powerful, not to mention psycho enough to kill somebody as a baby. I think I'm going to make friends with him."

Crabbe kept his reservations to himself, and Goyle merely chewed his pasty.

"Obviously he'll need my help to catch up in the wizarding world, having spent all that time with Muggles. I think it's a shame that they sent him to a Muggle family–typical of Dumblebutt."

Blaise lolloped by, leaning leisurely against the door frame of the compartment and knocking on the open door. "Say, Malfoy, did you hear? They're saying Harry Potter's on the train, and he's sitting with that Weasley kid."

"No!" Draco exclaimed, pushing past him to look down the train hallway. "The kid with the glasses?"

"Soon he'll find out that some wizarding families are better than others," Blaise continued, examining his fingernails.

"No way! I thought he was just some kid in a shop! Crabbe! Goyle! Remember that boy I told you about in Madame Malkin's, the lout who didn't know any Quidditch teams? That was Harry Potter! I had no idea. That's why he was with that oaf Hagrid."

"If he keeps hanging around filth like Hagrid and the Weasley's, it'll rub off. Riff-raff, the lot of them," Blaise said with perfect nonchalance.

"So handsome, too! You can just feel the power coming from him. One look at him and you can tell–he's got power. That's charisma, my father told me. Are you sure that's a Weasley he's with?"

"All the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford," Blaise shrugged.

"Heh–good one. Goyle!" Draco snapped at Crabbe. "We're going down to warn him not to make friends with the _wrong sort_, you know."

"I–" Crabbe began.

"Come, now! Imagine how upset he'll be to find out he's been eating candy with a blood-traitor! Naturally, since we're such good friends, he'll listen to me about it. Come along, you two. Harry Potter! Wearing glasses, who'd have thought it!"

Their first interview did not, perhaps, go as well as Draco had anticipated.

"The little–little–blood-traitor! The fool!" Draco fumed, when he had recovered his breath in their compartment. Goyle was sucking on his bitten finger and quietly crying.

"He thinks he can tell the 'wrong sort' for himself? What's that supposed to mean? Well, what do you expect from a half-blood raised by Muggles? No proper feeling at all, not a whiff. Just a bigheaded–a scar–a stupid scar-wearing stupidhead–"

"A scarhead?" Crabbe suggested.

"Scarhead! Stupid Muggle-lover. I bet the Dark Lord's curse bounced off his forehead because he was so thick then! Blaise won't believe this! Blaise!" Draco called, stomping out of the compartment. "Pansy! Theodore! You will not believe what the scarhead just said to me! Yes, I said scarhead! ..."

Crabbe, sitting quietly, noted that tears were running down Goyle's face, as he sucked forlornly at his finger.

"What's up, Greggers?" he asked.

Goyle shook his head.

"Don't suck on that, you're going to get sick. You don't know where that rat's been."

Goyle looked horrified, then his face crumpled as he began to wail.

"No, no, stop, it's okay, you aren't going to get sick," Crabbe sighed, patting Goyle on the head. Goyle stopped wailing and began to hiccup.

"Now, what's the matter, Greggers?" Crabbe asked, pulling a crushed pastry cake out of Draco's suitcase, and, shutting it, replacing it safely on the top rack.

"Rat bit me."

"I know a rat bit you. It didn't hurt."

"I don't like rats."

Crabbe sighed.

"Harry Potter should kill the rat."

"Now, Greggers, Mr. Malfoy doesn't like Harry Potter anymore."

"No?" Goyle said, confused.

Crabbe pulled a package of sticking plaster out of his own suitcase–"Always be prepared!" his mother had said–and began bandaging Goyle's finger. "No, Harry Potter isn't cool anymore. If we ever see him or his friends again, we have to be mean to them."

Goyle frowned. "Harry Potter's good."

"Not anymore. He's–he's friends with the rat, Greggers! Do you like the rat?"

Goyle shook his head.

"Okay, well, just pretend when you see Harry that he's got a rat."

Goyle began to cry again.

"No, no, er, pretend he's–pretend, when you hit him, that you're hitting a giant rat."

Goyle cried harder.


	2. Chapter 2

Second year found Crabbe looking through the Great Hall for Goyle, finding him curled up in a corner. Crabbe had just finished secretly correcting Malfoy's holiday homework, adding the appropriate arrogant flourishes, and was looking for a good time. He found Goyle bending all the silverware into square knots, and realized that this good time was not to be had.

"All right, Greggers?"

"I got a letter from my mamma," Goyle replied.

_Oh, great,_ Crabbe thought, sitting beside him. "What did she say this time?"

"Mamma is getting a divorce, and she called dadda mean names and said that wizards can't give good head. What's that mean?"

"I think it means she's a lesbian," Crabbe replied, taking the spoons away from Goyle and mending them with a _Reparo!_

"But she's not in plays," Goyle replied.

Crabbe dismissed this, and tried to pull Goyle away from table. He may as well have been tugging on the arm of a marble statue. "I'm sure your parents love you very much, now let's go get something to eat."

Goyle pouted.

Crabbe threw his hands up. "Greggers, it's Christmas! Santa is coming."

"All the other Slytherins said Santa is a Muggle."

"Of course he's not a Muggle! How else does he get to every child's house on Christmas night? Santa isn't a Muggle, don't worry."

"Drives a sled. Doesn't use Floo-powder."

Crabbe was momentarily stunned by this sensible thought coming from Goyle.

"Well ... well ... well, it's because Santa isn't a human at all. He's a house-elf who serves all of humanity. And a very good one at that, who never has to iron his fingers."

Goyle's eyes went wide. "A house-elf?"

"Right, a right jolly old elf. And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself."

"You saw Santa?"

"Yes, I ... er ... I saw him in the hallway, delivering presents. And I asked him, and he said there was an extra-sad boy around who he was delivering presents to, to cheer him up. And guess who that sad boy is?"

"Uh ... Harry Potter?"

"... no. It's you!"

A light leapt into Goyle's eyes. "Santa brought me food!"

"Er, what?"

"I saw cakes in the hallway! Santa brought me cakes!"

"What are you–"

"Come on!" Goyle cried, pulling Crabbe along–and though Crabbe was still rather taller than Goyle, he found that he could no more stop Greggers than Voldemort would admit defeat to Dumbledore at a polite public debate moderated by impartial judges.

Goyle hauled Crabbe down the labyrinthine corridors of Hogwarts, stopping in front of a couple of cakes lying abandoned on the floor.

"See! Santa left them for me, because I'm so sad my mamma is sucking pussy."

"Er–Greg, you shouldn't eat food just lying around. It's probably not safe," Crabbe said. And did he just hear a giggle?

Goyle's face fell. "Santa's trying to kill me?"

"No–"

"Smash Santa," Goyle hissed, cracking his knuckles. He seemed to increase in girth, if that were possible.

"No! I was just–teasing! This food is very good!" So say, he took up a cake and began to eat it. "Mmm! Good!"

Well, as soon as he bit into it, he tasted the sleeping potion, because, let's face it, the Robitussin taste is not easily disguised, not even by a few layers of flower, sugar, and chocolate icing. It was so obvious, in fact, one would have to be extremely dense not to realize that it was laced with it after the first bite–exactly as dense as Goyle happened to be. Unwilling to drop the ruse, Crabbe smiled and continued chewing, and Goyle greedily tore into his own cake, simple delight on his face.

Then the floor rapidly rose to smash into their faces.

Crabbe awoke in the cold, in the dark, to the sound of Goyle's sobs, and to a throbbing headache.

"Crabbe?" Goyle was sobbing. "Crabbe? Crabbe? Crabbe?"

"What?" Crabbe snapped.

"Santa hates me."

"Santa doesn't hate you," Crabbe muttered, pulling himself up.

"I ate the cake and I fell down!" Goyle wailed. Suddenly, his sobs halted. "Crabbe," he whispered. "Are we in hell?"

"We're in a broom closet, Greggers."

"How do you know?"

"It's dark and I'm sitting on a broom."

"Why did Santa put me in a broom closet?"

"It's Santa _Claus,_ Goyle, Santa _Claus!_ For Merlin's sake, you sound so babyish when you leave off his last name!"

Goyle's silence spoke volumes. If the volumes were filled with angry diatribes about the fickle nature of friendship and illustrated with helpful pictures of Crabbe having just been relieved of several of his limbs.

"No, no, see, it was ... a dream potion. Yeah. It gives you the most awesome dream of your deepest desire, and it's amazing! But when you wake up you can't remember it. Trust me, it's worth it."

"I don't remember dreaming about custard."

"That's right, you forget it. Trust me, it was fantastic."

"Was I licking it off toes?"

"I ... I ... yes?"

"Was it your toes?"

"Perhaps?"

"Oh." Goyle sounded far more cheerful. "Can we go now? I have to piss."

"Er, yes, let's."

They stumbled out of the closet, and down the hallway - the potion was still affecting their balance. They had not tripped on too many staircases before they heard Malfoy's voice compelling them.

"Crabbe! Goyle! On every twelfth follicle of Merlin's beard, what. Are. You. Doing?"

"I–" Crabbe began.

"I thought you were going to the hospital for Goyle's stomachache," Draco said, pointing at Crabbe's midsection.

"It's ... better now," Crabbe said.

"Oh! Well, why are you up here? You're not anywhere near the hospital wing, or the dungeons."

As a matter of fact, Crabbe had no idea where they were going. He had lumbered about with a vague idea of visiting the magic room on the seventh floor, maybe conjuring up some wakefulness potions within it, or, alternately, a comfortable bed. (Pansy had commandeered Goyle's bed for her accessories. Goyle had commandeered Crabbe's. Crabbe slept on the floor.) Goyle had blindly followed him. Crabbe just stared.

Draco took his hint magnificently. "God, if you two were any slower, you'd be going backwards!"

Goyle nodded. Draco said this several times a day, and yet he still hadn't worked out what it meant. He was grateful for the repetition.

"And–while we're on the subject–what's with all the questions about the Chamber and whatnot? I mean, you were practically interrogating me. Me, a Malfoy! God, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were Harry Potter in disguise or something."

"Sorry," Crabbe offered.

"Sorry is right. You're sorry. ... excuses for friends!"

"Good one, Malfoy," said a voice floating up the stairway. It was Blaise. "Though I wouldn't have milked the delivery."

"What milk delivery? The Malfoy Manor has its own cows, you know," Draco said, abandoning his sorry excuses for friends to follow Blaise down the stairs. "Noble and ancient steers and all that." Draco's suggestions to go beat up some Hufflepuff second-years faded from earshot.

Goyle tugged Crabbe's sleeve.

"Crabbe?"

"What, Greggers?"

"Was he talking about the–the chamber?"

"Yeah."

"Should we tell him about that girl writing the messages in blood?"

"No, he doesn't want to hear. Believe me, Greggers, tell him and he will get very angry with you."

Goyle's eyes widened, and he promised not to tell, never to tell. Not about Ginevra Weasley covered in blood, or her strangling chickens, or her walking Inferi-like through the Hogwarts halls, carrying the diary Crabbe recognized from Malfoy's Brand-That-Must-Not-Be-Named Collectibles Museum as being the Dark Lord's own ("A sensational read, though I say it myself–for I have ruled that my opinion is the only one that matters."–He Who Must Not Be Named, the _Death Eater Times_). As far as Crabbe was concerned, the less Draco knew, the better. Why piss off the Heir of Slytherin?


End file.
